Metal bangles rattle
slide up and down
wrist to elbow
We sit, squashed on a vinyl-padded bench
wedged between wobbly table and window
squeaking tacky plastic
but mostly talking
Your summery black and flowery satin
first set beside windblown sand drifts
splots of grass weed, anonymous hedge
gentle echo of voices and cars
thussh, thussh, of ocean
dispelled my madness
Inside, our naïve talk is OK
It's OK – for hours
Twilight
your kiss is sweet and childish
your fingertips on my face
melting
~ ~ ~
Over The Park Again
He's a sad man saddled with a good reliable
child-bearing wife and daughter and pink
bicycle and job and mortgage and life
insurance and what the fuck is it all about and
he's doused in self-defeat and emasculation
and hopes for a small victory a little game to
start and win and what else is there but in the
movies and the adverts he comes alive and
his dreams are fulfilled and neutralised and
compart-mentalised and how else would he
get through the day who cares